Forever
by Aynslesa
Summary: War is coming to Thedas. With the Chantry out for his blood, and his mind slowly losing a fight with madness, Anders fears that his days are numbered - until Nathaniel Howe unexpectedly reappears in his life. Now Nathaniel must find a way to save Anders' sanity before he loses himself to Vengeance...or else face losing the mage he loves forever.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:**I don't own Dragon Age~ The boys are not mine~ If they were, Anders and Nathaniel would have had a _very_ different reunion scene in DA2.

**Author's Notes:** YAY. IT'S DONE. Well...chapter one, at least. I told myself I would'nt do another multi-chapter for Dragon Age while I had Arcanum to focus on, but this was a plot bunny that got stuck in my head and refused to get out. Eventually my brain had to grab it by the scruff and shake it around a bit, and the end result is what you see here. This story won't have a set update schedule; I'll update it as I finish each chapter - but as always, the more interest the more motivation. :) As for notes, well, post-DA2, pre-Asunder and m/m relationships galore.

Much thanks to Teakwood for betaing and putting up with my fangirlisms, and special thanks to LittleLeto, also known as lisakodysam, for giving me the nudge needed to get the first chapter finished. Sorry it took me so long to post!

Please enjoy.

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**Forever**

**Chapter One: Escape**

He could hear them behind him, the sounds of their heavy plated boots thudding against the dirt, sticks and dead leaves giving way with each step. Each breath he took came out in a harsh pant; his lungs felt as if they were on fire. How long had he been running now? Since Ostwick, when the templars had picked up on his trail again? Or had he been running even longer, since Kirkwall, since that fated day when he had turned the world of Thedas on its head in one fell swoop?

Yes. That was it, exactly. Ever since Hawke had given him cold stare and told him in no uncertain terms to Get Out and Leave, Anders had been running. With Sebastian's cries of vengeance (what _irony_) echoing behind him, Anders had grabbed his staff and fled, chest tight and heart heavy as the full force of what he had unleashed fell upon Kirkwall and played out around him.

He had no contingency plan. He was supposed to have _died_ then, died at the hands of Hawke, retribution for what he had done. The destruction of the Chantry had been justice for the mages; his death had meant to be justice for the Chantry. That had been the plan. That had _always_ been the plan, and Anders had never wavered from it, save for those lonely nights in Darktown when there was no one to distract him in the clinic and he began to feel the gnawing guilt at putting Hawke in such a position.

Then the day had come, and everything had proceeded exactly as Justice had dictated it would – except Hawke, always striving to not follow the status quo, had failed to follow through on his part. And Anders – who could not, _would not_, take his own life – was running. He didn't know where he was headed. His only thought was to _go_ – go, and keep going, until he had no choice but to stop. And then once he'd caught his breath, get up and move again. It was a familiar dance, but old – the last time he had performed it had been prior to his arrival at Vigil's Keep in Amaranthine.

Prior to his life changing forever.

_Don't think about then_, he ordered himself tersely. Dwelling on the past wasn't going to grant him a future, and if he didn't find a way to shake the templars than the only thing that possible future was going to be was very short indeed.

_Wouldn't that be for the best?_ his mind whispered. _Phylactery or no phylactery, they will never stop hunting you. Wouldn't it be better for you to submit to them, the take your punishment for all those lives lost? Is there truly anywhere that you can hide?_

Anders felt his chest tighten as the thoughts bombarded him. It was one thing when he'd intended to die by Hawke's hand. Hawke had been a friend, a confidant, a support. Hawke was someone Anders had grown to _respect_. Hawke…Anders could have accepted death by _Hawke's_ hand.

But he would sooner take his _own_ life before allowing _templars_ to put their hands on him again.

The footsteps behind him had grown fainter, and Anders slowed his back marginally in an attempt to determine whether they had stopped, or merely fallen behind. When he heard nothing he hesitated, leaning against a tree to catch his breath. Was he truly that lucky that his pursuers had given up the chase? Or was it just that he'd run far enough, fast enough, that he'd been able to give them the slip?

Pain lanced through his side, indication of how out of shape he was, and Anders pressed his hand to his side and allowed the soothing sense of his healing magic to spread through him. He was low on mana, he could feel it, and he'd swallowed the last of his lyrium hours earlier. He spared only a small amount on his healing, just enough to give him that extra boost to start moving again. Once he found a safe place, he could rest the remaining pain and discomfort away.

_Nowhere is safe. They'll keep coming for you. There's no point in running any longer._

He felt his heart speed up, a rapid pounding in his chest that made his mouth go dry. If he stopped running, if the templars caught him, then he knew what would happen to him. They'd kill him – perhaps swiftly, perhaps a drawn out spectacle in the name of the Chantry. No. _No._ Because he had realized one very important thing, in the moment when Hawke had spared him and ordered him gone.

He didn't _want_ to die.

His vision blurred. Stubbornly he clenched his jaw, refusing to allow the welling tears to fall. It didn't matter what he wanted. He'd made his bed, so to speak, and now he had no choice but to lie in it. There really _wasn't_ any place safe, was there? Perhaps if he were still with Hawke… but that was a path closed to him.

Yet despite his feet feeling like lead, despite the heaviness in his heart and the feeling of helplessness rising up inside of him, he could not bring himself to simply give up. Maybe the templars _would_ catch up to him, but he couldn't just fall where he stood and wait. Fight or flight. That was the creed he'd always lived his life by; hell if he was going to stop doing so now. Taking a deep breath to steady himself, he brought up his hand to cast another rejuvenation spell. His hand lit up with the familiar glow.

And then the light vanished. Not a fade, but the sudden dispelling like a candle's flame being snuffed from the wick. A cold chill spread through his body, starting at the center of his chest and spreading outwards into his arms and legs. The moment it reached his head a wave of vertigo washed over him and he staggered, groping for the tree in an attempt to keep himself on his feet. He trembled with the effort.

The soft crack of a heavy boot on a stick jerked his head up and caused another rush of dizziness to come over him. He paled, staring at the armor-clad templar who stepped out of the forest shadows only a few feet away from him. Cold, cruel eyes as dark as coal glared at him from beneath thick blonde bangs, the stubble-covered jaw clenched in anger.

"Did you think you'd given us the slip, apostate?" the templar hissed. "You led us on a merry chase, you did, all the way from Ostwick to this place. Where did you think you were going? Surely you didn't think you were going to make it all the way to Markham, did you?"

Anders tried to force himself to stand up straight, but the physical manifestation of his magical core being so thoroughly drained was having a startling effect on his coordination and stability. Just straightening hit him with another wave of dizziness and he swayed, sliding half-way down the tree as his legs became unable to support him. It wasn't just his magic that was being drained from him; the cleansing struck his very core, throwing his entire body out of focus. It had been six years since the last time he had fallen victim to it, but the chilling emptiness within him was as familiar as if it had happened just yesterday. And just like that last time, he was helpless now to defend himself. He didn't even have a staff with him.

His throat tightened when he saw the other two figures emerge from the trees to join the first templar, their expressions equally hard and glaring.

"So this is him?" sneered one of the newcomers, looking at Anders with narrow eyes full of contempt and disgust. "_This_ is the abomination who destroyed the Chantry in Kirkwall and murdered the Grand Cleric? Not much to look at, is he?"

"You don't _need_ to look at him, Nigel," the first templar snapped. "You only need to be able to run a sword through him."

Anders felt himself grow cold, heart pounding heavily in his chest. He felt his limbs grow heavy with realization and resignation. So. They weren't even intending on dragging him off anywhere for trial. They meant to execute him here and now.

The templar must have seen the way Anders' eyes widened, and faced him with a cruel smirk. "Did you think we'd allow you to martyr yourself, abomination?" he jeered, advancing towards the weakened mage. "A public execution, perhaps giving you a chance to speak out in the name of your supposed cause? A chance to ignite the flames of rebellion once again? I think not."

He was less than a foot from Anders now, and his hand shot out, grasping the mage's long hair and yanking his head back, rough enough to elicit a cry of pain from him. "No," the templar hissed, "there's only one ending that you're fit for, demonspawn, and that's the tip of my blade."

Anders opened one eye, ignoring the blinding pain in his head as he struggled with a half-grin creeping across his face. "Really?" he asked weakly."That's the best line you could come up with?"

The templar's eyes flashed, and there was a resonant crack of metal and leather against skin as he backhanded Anders hard across the face. The force of it sent the mage to the ground, and a well-aimed kick at the ribs with a steel-toed boot made sure he stayed there. Anders did not imagine the crack that came with the kick, nor did he hallucinate the pain. His vision blurred as he struggled to catch the breath that had been stolen from him, and only once the hazy blackness around the edge of his sight vanished did he notice the sword that was now being pointed at him. Or, more specifically, at the soft flesh of his neck.

"Wait a moment, Flann." This came from the third templar, who had until that moment been silent. Anders could only hear his voice; he couldn't lift his head enough to see his face. In another time or place – and from another mouth – it might have been a pleasant voice. Now it only drew a shudder from Anders, because he was certain that the halting wasn't going to be in favor of any sort of mercy.

"Why kill him off so quickly?" the third templar continued, a smirk in his tone. "After the chase he's led us on, I think we've more than deserved a bit of fun beforehand. I've heard stories about this one from Ferelden. He had himself _quite_ the reputation some years back."

Anders' throat tightened, the words chilling him so much that he forgot about the pain. _No!_ his mind screamed, rebelling at the insinuation, a surge of panic rushing through him as he struggled to remember how to breathe. He'd sworn_, sworn_, that he would never again be a victim. That he would never have to submit himself to another in order to survive, that he would never again allow himself to be used for the sake of another's cruel amusement. Dimly he heard Flann give a dark laugh of ascent, and when he heard the sounds of armor clinking as it was removed and adjusted, his heart and stomach both attempted to climb up into his throat.

Gloved hands grabbed him and hauled him up to his knees, ignoring the shout of pain he gave after being jostled so roughly. Ribs aching, head throbbing, and magic drained he was too disoriented to fight the hands that were suddenly manhandling him without a care for his injuries. A hand on his back suddenly shoved him forward, pushing his face into the mossy ground, causing him to nearly choke on the dirt that almost ended up in his mouth.

He could feel his clothes being tugged at, the already tattered and torn garments nearly ripping from the lack of care. _Please, no!_ he thought desperately, trying to gather up the strength to fight back, to do _something_, but finding himself unable to move. It felt as if his body were out of his control, as if nothing he could do could get it to respond the way he needed it to.

Maker. This was really going to happen to him. His greatest fear, born of cold nights in the darkness of solitary, was about to be realized.

_Justice?_ He called out to the spirit, a note of desperation in his mental voice, but he felt no answering reply. The Spirit had been silent since Kirkwall, since the moment that Hawke had chosen to spare his life and sent him out of the city. There had been moments when Anders had thought the Spirit had abandoned him, but…no, he'd feel it, wouldn't he? If Justice left him, he'd know for _sure_. So he had to be there still, somewhere in the depths of his mind. And Justice wouldn't abandon him, would he? _Justice, please! I can't...!_

Rough hands grabbed him by the hips, and hot tears – of what? Anger? Panic? Despair? – pricked at the corners of his eyes. He opened his mouth to cry out, to curse or swear, but no sound came out. The cruel laughter of the templars rose up around him, and Anders felt the cold blanket of inevitability fall over him.

The laughter cut off abruptly, replaced by a wet, gurgling sound that Anders dimly recognized but in his dazed state could not place. The hands fell away from his hips, and with a thud the armored body for the templar collapsed to the ground mere inches from Anders, dead eyes staring at the mage's. A single arrow, slim shafted and feathered in blue and gray at the end, protruded from his unprotected neck.

The other two templars let out shouts, drawing their swords in near unison as they charged at an attacker that Anders could not see. He listened to the clash of blades, to the shouts of pain and the swearing epithets. Dimly he noted the fall of the first body, and then the second, the sounds of battle diminishing until they were no more.

He thought he saw a pair of leather boots come into his line of vision, a gloved hand come to rest on his shoulder. Dimly a voice registered, and he thought it was familiar… _Can't be possible. Just a hallucination_, he thought dimly as the combined forces of pain and exhaustion at last overwhelmed him.

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How the hell, the rogue thought sourly, did he keep ending up in these situations?

The candlelight flickered off the wooden walls, casting dancing shadows across the contents of the small one-room building. A fire burned dim in the fireplace, and he kept one shrewd eye on it to make certain that no wayward embers popped their way onto anything that might catch.

The other remained focused on the still figure lying on the bottom bunk in front of him. He hadn't stirred once since they'd made it to waystation, flat on his back as he'd been settled. Pale skin that showed evidence of years living out of direct sun, sunken cheeks and eyes from dehydration and sleep deprivation, too-skinny body (Maker, he'd been shocked when he'd first lifted him up, he'd weighed no more than a child!) that spoke of malnutrition – if not for his shallow breathing he could have easily been mistaken for a corpse.

He was so far from the vibrant, laughing mage who had once graced the halls of Vigil's Keep that Nathaniel couldn't help but feel a surge of pity for the man, even knowing what it was that had had him on the run from the templars in the first place. If anyone had asked him, seven years ago, if he could have ever imagined Anders in this situation Nathaniel would have laughed in their faces. Carefree and a bit of a magpie though he might be, Anders was at heart a good man.

_Was_ being the operable word. Good men did not blow up an entire Chantry and pave the way for civil war.

A soft cry escaped from the man on the bed, interrupting Nathaniel's thoughts. Anders was shifting restlessly, turning his head as he trembled, beads of sweat breaking out on his skin. Nathaniel reached for a small basin of water and dipped a cloth in it, letting it soak through before using it to wipe as Anders' forehead and face. The moment the cool, damp cloth touched his skin Anders seemed to calm, though his breathing remained shallow and his lips were cracked and dry. He grimaced. If Anders didn't wake soon Nathanial was going to going to have another set of problems to deal with. He had no way of ensuring that Anders got enough nourishment while unconscious. He'd seen firsthand what happened to Wardens who were unable to keep up with their enhanced metabolism. That ravenous appetite designed to accommodate their increased strength and stamina could backfire in horrendous ways, and Anders was already clearly not eating enough as it was.

And he hadn't even addressed the swelling and bruising that was beginning to show itself on the mage's skin.

Nathaniel could clean and dress an open wound, he could splint a broken arm or leg, and he was moderately decent at finding herbs that helped stave off infection and fever. When it came to actual _healing_, however, he was well aware that he had neither the skill nor the aptitude for it. He was no physician or chirurgeon, and he certainly wasn't a healer. If there were broken bones that he couldn't see or internal bleeding, he could do nothing for it.

And unfortunately, the only healer within miles was currently playing the part of patient as well.

He dropped the cloth back into the basin and scowled, leaning back in his chair.

_Damn you, Colin_, Nathaniel thought with as much anger as he could summon, as if the mage in question would be able to hear his cursing thoughts on the other side of the Waking Sea. _I told you I didn't want this assignment! _He'd been quite vehement in his insistence as well, but as usual the Warden-Commander did what _he _wanted to do, and damn the rest of them! He should have known when he was summoned to the Commander's office that he was not going to like what the other man had to tell him.

But it was impossible to say no when his Commander – and _friend_ – gave what was both an order and a request, and Nathaniel couldn't deny that he was the best person for the task. He was the Ferelden Wardens' best ranger, and his knowledge of the Free Marches was greater than any others stationed at Vigil's Keep.

He'd argued, briefly, that it would have been better to request that the Ansburg Wardens take up the search as they were already located in the Free Marches, but Colin hadn't wanted to waste the time it would take to get a message to them and then risk a possible rejection. Though the Wardens weren't exactly partial about whom they accepted into their ranks, they did _not_ look too kindly on deserters.

Particularly deserters who had single-handedly brought about a revolution and a massacre all in one day.

And if Nathaniel was going to be one hundred percent honest with himself, he didn't want to see Anders' head on an executioner's block. Whatever else lay between them, he had never wanted the mage _dead_.

The rogue sighed and shook his head. When it came to Anders his anger came in waves – one minute he could think of the other man in distant, dispassionate terms; the next he felt such a violent surge that no one dared even mention the mage's name in his presence. Only Colin took the risk, seeming to think that actually _talking _about Anders was more beneficial to Nathaniel than avoiding the matter entirely. More than once Varel, Zevran, and on the rare occasion _Oghren_ had had to intervene to keep the Warden-Commander from getting an arrow in the back when he pushed too far, saying or doing something to drag suppressed memories too close to the surface.

Those were the nights when, long after the rest of the Keep had returned, Nathaniel closed himself up in his room and found himself seeking comfort in the bottle.

Those were the nights when the memories he worked so hard to bury rose up once more and plagued him, taunting him with suppositions of what-might-have-been. Images of bright amber eyes and impish smiles would plague his dreams. The memory of smooth fingers caressing calloused palms, of a surprising lean body pressed against his own larger frame, of red-gold hair mixing with black atop a pillow – all of these would come back to haunt him, and no number of standards downed in quick succession could ever chase them away.

Now here he was, sitting in a dank, drafty cabin, staring at the pale-faced, too-thin form of a man who had once been filled with life and laughter. What had the mage been through in the past seven years to lead him to this? What had he seen – what had he _done?_ Nathaniel had heard rumors that he'd been part of the Champion of Kirkwall's retinue, though he hadn't been present during Nathaniel's own brief encounter with Ashton Hawke in the Deep Roads. Rumors also placed him at the scene of the battle of Kirkwall that had left First Enchanter Orsino and Knight-Commander Meredith – not to mention scores of the mages and templars who served under both – dead. Accounts of what had actually occurred outside of the Chantry varied, ranging from Anders destroying the Chantry with a single spell so powerful that it brought the entire structure down in one blast to the mage leading a massive underground army of mages in rebellion to destroy the symbol of their suppression. Even those who had been present for it – and lived – told a different version of each tale, each more absurd and fanciful than the last.

Only a handful of people _really_ knew what had taken place, and most of them had vanished into the forests of the Free Marches.

Nathanial dipped the cloth once more into the water, then leaned forward and dabbed gently at Anders' forehead, wiping away the cold sweat that had formed once more on his brow. Then he moved to do the same to his jaw, swallowing a reflexive growl at the sight of the darkening bruise from where the templar had struck him. As the abuse the men had rained upon him began to physically manifest, Nathaniel couldn't help but regret that the men were already dead, if only because such a state robbed him of the opportunity to kill them _again_. He drew his hand back, glancing at Anders' face again with a slight frown.

Hazy amber eyes stared uncomprehendingly back at him.

Nathaniel froze, his hand and the damp cloth only inches away from the prone mage. He held himself in such a way for several moments, schooling his expression carefully so as not to give anything away.

The lethargic haze cleared slowly from Anders' eyes, and they slowly began to widen as recognition dawned on them, followed instantly by shock. Chapped lips parted, moved, no sound coming out at first. The second attempt drew out a voice that was hoarse from disuse and dehydration, but nonetheless a voice that Nathaniel knew too well.

"_Nathaniel?_"


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Dragon Age, sadly. If I did, Alistair would be a bisexual romance option.

**Author's Note:** No excuses - even though I know I said this story wasn't going to have a regular update schedule, two months is still pushing it. I got swept up in another fandom, and this story got pushed to the back burner - but I have not abandoned it! For those of you who read chapter one when it first came out, thank you for coming back for chapter two. For those of you just reading this now, thank you for reading both chapters at once. Please enjoy!

Special thanks to my tireless beta-reader, Teakwood, who somehow manages to keep track of all the stories, original and fanfiction, that I through at him. Also a big thanks to lisakodysam, who nudged me relentlessly until I got this chapter done and posted.

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**Forever  
Chapter Two**

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"_Nathaniel?_"

Anders winced as the word left his throat, his voice scratchy and unrecognizable. His mouth felt dry; his entire body ached. His mind processed these facts as soon as he awoke, but promptly pushed them to the side as his blurred vision came into focus, recognition jolting through him as he stared at the dark-haired rogue that sat near his bed.

_No...no, it _can't_ be. Not now. Not _here_. _

Panic gripped him, made his chest and throat tighten. How? _Why? _What reason could Nathaniel Howe have to be in the woods of the Free Marches, so far from Ferelden and Amaranthine and any sort of Grey Warden outpost?

Hazy memories returned, recollections of what had happened just moments before he'd blacked out. He remembered seeing the templars fall, the arrow protruding from the throat of one of them with the tip buried in the man's carotid artery – that the shot had met its target spoke either of incredible luck or years of carefully honed skill. And here was the best archer in Ferelden, sitting mere inches from him, so close that Anders could reach out and touch him if he wanted to.

"Anders."

Oh, _Maker_. That voice, low and deep and rolling smoothly around his name as if it were a physical entity to be caressed. Seven years hadn't changed Nathaniel's voice in the least, and just the sound of it made Anders' heart ache. For a moment he felt as if he were walking down one of the many corridors in Vigil's Keep and that he was hearing that voice behind him, calling to him, capturing his attention in a way that no one else ever had. He'd heard that voice shout in anger, snap with orders, banter with sarcastic wit, groan with desire...

A shock of pain surged through him, causing his shoulders to tense up and a startled gasp to tear from his throat. Without thinking he'd attempted to shift his position onto his side, and his ribs were screaming in furious protest. The plus side was that it effectively cut off his undesired walk down memory lane. Unfortunately, it also _hurt like hell_. Tears pricked the corners of his eyes, and he drew in a shuddering breath to try and keep from passing out again.

And with the pain came the memory of how he'd gotten the injury, of the metal-toed templar boot that had connected squarely with his ribs and knocked the wind from him.

A firm hand grasped his shoulder, pushing him back down on to the bed and keeping him firmly in place. Involuntarily a shudder rippled through Anders at the touch, but Nathaniel didn't release him – he held fast, looking down at the mage with a stoic, unreadable expression.

Unable to move and without the strength to try and resist Anders could only lie there, drawing in gasping breaths as he struggled through the pain. Soon it began to subside, the forced position allowing the pressure to ease off of his aching rib cage.

"_Idiot_," Nathanial said, a harsh growl rolling through the timbre of his Ferelden accent. "Have the years left your mind addled? You're a _healer_, you ought to know better than to move after sustaining the kind of injuries you have!"

Anders winced, tears pricking the corners of his eyes. "Didn't…remember," he whispered, attempting a few slow, deep breaths and managing only shallow ones. Oh, yes. At least one broken rib, possibly two or maybe even three. If the pain wasn't proof enough of that, his own body's inability to function was filling in the blanks quite nicely.

He closed his eyes and focused, reaching for his replenished mana reserves. His hand flared ethereal blue, the tips of his fingers near white as he ran them down along the length of his rib cage. It wasn't painless – healing magic repaired the body, but didn't numb it, and he had none of his usual poultices with which to do so. The pain would fade within moments once the healing was complete, but the process itself was another matter entirely.

Nathaniel watched quietly as Anders healed himself, seeing the sweat breaking out across the mage's forehead, watching the way he bit his lip and listening to his labored breaths of exertion. He knew what the mage had to be feeling – he'd been healed enough himself, both before the Wardens and since, to know what being on the end of such spells entailed. Broken bones were the worst, because they required setting before healing – and if they weren't, the spell would attempt to compensate. That was likely what Anders was dealing with now, for there was no way _to_ set a rib.

Finally Anders relaxed, the glow on his fingers dying out and the tension escaping from his muscles. It was clear that he'd used up a good portion of his replenished mana to perform the spell, however – he was pale and sweating, clearly exhausted by that one simple act. Nathaniel couldn't help but think back to their time in Amaranthine, when Anders could cast healing spell after healing spell with almost no amount of hesitation. Was it just his current injuries that made it so difficult, or was it something more?

"Can I get you anything?" Nathaniel finally asked, breaking the silence that stretched between them. There wasn't much in the waystation that he could offer, but there was food and water. No alcohol, but then neither of them needed to be getting drunk. "Do you think you could keep down food?"

"I don't…" Anders' voice trailed off as his stomach released a particularly fierce growl, as if to counteract the mage's argument before it even began. Without a word Nathaniel rose to his feet and went to the dry storage shelves, selecting a few samples from the dried meat and fruit selection and then adding a bit of cheese and bread from his own supplies. Not nearly enough by Grey Warden standards, but given Anders' current state introducing large quantities of food into his stomach at all once was probably even less of a good idea then it sounded. In fact, Nathaniel suspected the mage would have likely starved to death long before now if it weren't for Warden stamina.

Not a thought he wanted to focus on at the moment.

Nathaniel reached to offer Anders a hand as the mage struggled into a sitting position, but the flicker of apprehension that appeared in his eyes was enough to halt him – and he had to try and ignore how much that look bothered him. He watched silently as Anders, wincing from the effort, got himself settled and then quietly accepted the food that Nathaniel held out to him.

He sat back into the chair as Anders set to work on the food at a slow, methodical pace despite the fact that the man had to be ravenous. With a pang Nathaniel recognized it as the eating habit of someone who couldn't be sure of when or what his next meal would be and was trying to make his current one last for as long as it could.

"When was the last time you had anything to eat?" Nathaniel finally had to ask, after Anders had taken the last bite and then cleaned off his fingers to catch every last bit and crumb from them.

The mage paused, staring at his hands for a moment, then lowering them and turning his head slightly towards Nathaniel – but not looking _right_ at him. He hadn't done that since he'd woken up. "You mean something other than scavenged plants and berries and the occasional rabbit? Not since…" He frowned slightly. "I think it was a village just west of Ostwick. That's where I was headed when the Templars got back on my trail."

Nathaniel stared at Anders for a measured moment, running this information through the mental map in his head. They were well into the forest that ran along the foot of the Vimmark Mountains – north of Ostwick now, actually, much closer to Markham. Even if Anders had covered most of that distance at a run it was still too long for him to have gone without a meal. He had to have been exhausted, both physically and mentally. No _wonder_ the Templars had caught up to him. If Nathaniel hadn't managed come across the mage's path when he had…

Well, he already knew what would have happened. The intentions of those Templars had been perfectly clear, and Nathaniel still couldn't remember the precise moment he'd drawn his bow and released his arrows – he could only recall the red haze of fury that had clouded his thoughts.

Even if he hadn't been under orders to take whatever steps were necessary to secure Anders, those men would not have left the forest alive.

He kept those thoughts to himself, however, and instead voiced the more obvious ones. "You must have been without food for days," he said.

Anders gave an indifferent shrug. "It's nothing I'm not used to. A good solid meal wasn't the easiest thing to come by in Darktown, and I didn't exactly have time to pack up supplies before I… left." It didn't go unnoticed by Nathaniel, the way that his voice caught on that last word.

Silence fell between them then, tense and heavy and full of seven years of unspoken words. Nathaniel suddenly wished that the waystation was a little larger, enough to necessitate a second room, because then he might have been able to come up with a reason to get up and leave for a few moments, to give himself a chance to gather his thoughts.

_Excellent, Howe_, he thought sardonically. _You can face down a ten foot ogre with nothing but a bow on your back and a dagger in your boot, but you can't handle being in the same room with the man you –_

"Why are you here?"

Anders' abrupt question snapped Nathaniel out of his thoughts again, only to be met with a sharp and shrewd glare that seemed out of place on the once-familiar face that had changed so much – a harsh reminder that the man before him was no longer the same man that he'd once known.

"And don't give me some half-assed response about just happening to be in the right place at the right time," Anders caustically added. "No one passes through this forest with the road between Markham and Ostwick being both faster and safer, and it's sure as hell not darkspawn activity – I'd know. So tell me – why are you _here_, Nathaniel Howe?"

The honey-brown of his eyes were the same as they'd been seven years earlier, but there was no warmth in that gaze. There was only apprehension, wariness, and yes…fear. It was the fear that made Nathaniel's gut twist, because Anders had never before looked at _him_ that way. He'd never given him a reason to.

He hoped he wasn't about to give him another one.

"You're right," Nathanial said finally. There was no point in hiding the truth. "It's not darkspawn, and I don't have business in either Markham or Ostwick. I'm not even here on official Warden business, although it _was _Ferelden's Warden-Commander who sent me."

Anders grew tense. "Colin?" he whispered. "Sent you?"

"Yes." Nathaniel leveled his gaze. "As soon as he received word of what happened in Kirkwall, he sent me here to find you. To bring you back to Amaranthine – and to the Grey Wardens."

He wasn't sure what he'd expected Anders' reaction to be. Alarm, he supposed. Certainly resistance, given that Anders had shown absolutely no interest in rejoining the Wardens ever since his sudden and unexplained defection and disappearance. He'd _hoped_ for some sign of relief, given the mage's current situation. After all, if it was a choice between the Templars and the Wardens, surely Anders would choose his former comrades. Right?

The way Anders' face turned white at his words said differently.

"No," Anders whispered, eyes wide with fear and alarm. "No, you can't… I won't... _No!_" With a burst of unexpected strength and speed the mage suddenly launched himself from the bed, making a clear attempt to break past Nathaniel for the door. And he might have succeeded, taking advantage of the rogue's shock, if he hadn't suddenly cried out and caught his side, stumbling forward from the momentum.

"Anders!" Nathaniel turned and reached for him.

"_Don't!_" Anders shouted, just as Nathaniel's hand closed around his arm, the panicked warning spoken too late.

The last thing Nathaniel saw as _something_ threw his body across the room, crashing into the first thing it came into contact with, was a blinding, blue-white flash of light.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** Dragon Age belongs to Bioware. I just kidnap their characters for some fun.

**Author's Note:** And so here it is, chapter three. Apologies for everyone who has this on alert, considering how long it took for me to get it out and the note that Ch. 2 left off on. ^^; This story is something of an experiment, and I'm half-developing this as I go along. Thank you for your patience, and please continue to give my story your support. I appreciate all of it, and so do Anders and Nathaniel.

As always, this chapter was beta'd by Teakwood.

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**Forever  
Chapter Three**

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Once, many years earlier, Nathaniel had made the unfortunate decision to sample Oghren's homemade brew. One cordial of the foul-tasting, burning liquor and a day later, and Nathaniel had sworn to himself that he would never act against his better judgment again.

This headache was comparable to that, in the way that a mouse's squeak was comparable to the bark of an agitated mabari. The instant he attempted to open his eyes he was assaulted by what felt like white-hot pokers piercing straight into his brain. As if that in itself wasn't enough, shifting his body sent shocks of pain radiating from his lower back up along the length of his spine, and several sharp pieces of wood were threatening to penetrate through the now very tender skin of his ribcage. Moving, it seemed, was not going to be an option for the rogue – not until he was able to at least _see_ what he was doing in the process of extrication.

And then, unexpectedly and without warning, there was warmth. A slight pressure against his chest, and then tendrils of warmth spread out from its center, each one moving through his body, through his legs and arms and up his back towards his head, finding the individual sources of his discomfort and pain and easing them.

The vice clamped tight against his temples loosened, the pain that had been overriding his senses diminishing and allowing his body to tell him all of the useful and unpleasant things that it was experiencing. He became aware of the coppery taste of pooled blood in his mouth, although the accompanying injury to his tongue was gone, of the tingling pins and needles sensation of his circulation returning to his arms and legs, and of the sounds around him as the roaring in his ears diminished enough so that he could hear clearly.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry, please… please wake up… I'm sorry…"

The pleading words, interrupted regularly by halting sobs, were the first things to register clearly to Nathaniel. He recognized the voice, and doing so provided him with an explanation for the warmth and slow-progressing relief he was feeling – the voice above him and hands on his chest belonged to Anders, and what he was feeling was the mage's once-familiar healing power. It had been so long since he'd experienced that instinctive flavor of magic that he had almost forgotten the feel of it.

But there was something _wrong_ with it.

He and Anders had both had the privilege (or curse, depending on the point of view) to have been among the first of the Amaranthine Grey Wardens, when their numbers had consisted of three humans, two dwarves, a spirit and a Dalish elf. Seven in all, and they'd had to deal with a darkspawn civil war between an insane broodmother and a manipulative Emissary with no more than that. Needless to say there had been more than a few injuries between them, and Nathaniel had become well acquainted with Anders' personal flavor of healing.

Anders' magic had once been warm and enveloping, like a blanket being draped across one's shoulders, or the soothing warmth of a filled, heated bath. Those elements still remained, but it was the _third_ trait that Nathaniel remembered all too well that had shifted – the calm steadiness of someone who was confident in his abilities, of a master healer who could reassure the injured and sick that they _would_ get better, that they _would_ recover if only given the time to do so. Colin had once remarked to Nathaniel that he had known healers twice Anders' age who had never possessed such certainty, and that it had been a testament to Anders' skill and natural talent in the healing arts.

That calm was not only gone now but _fragmented,_ the pieces of it still clinging raggedly to the overall effect, like sailors holding fast to the wreckage of a sinking ship. Anders' healing, though still warm, gave a sense instead of jagged unsteadiness, as if Anders' magic were a glass sheet that had once been smooth and unblemished, but was now instead covered by a web of cracks that would shatter under even the slightest pressure. Nathaniel's throat tightened in apprehension. He was no mage, he only even noticed the change because it was _Anders_, but he knew instinctively that this was _important_. And _not good_.

Enough of the pain had subsided now to allow Nathaniel to try opening his eyes again, and this time he succeeded in doing so enough so that he could look at the blurry form hovering above him. One blink brought the image more into focus, another even more so, and it wasn't long before he could put a worried and anxious expression to the quiet, sobbing pleas and trembling hands.

"Anders," he whispered, or tried to, his voice coming out no louder than the barest whisper. He swallowed and licked at his lips with a dry tongue, and tried again with more force. "_Anders._"

He heard the mage's ragged breathing catch, and Anders' eyes were suddenly not focused on Nathaniel's chest but on his face. Tears had tracked down his cheeks, visible streaking through the pale filament of dust that covered his face. Red-rimmed honey-brown eyes widened, and a strangled gasp of what was either surprise or relief (or some mix of the two) caught in Anders' throat.

"You're alive," Anders choked out, suddenly touching his fingers to Nathaniel's cheek. The rogue was shocked at how _cold_ his touch felt, as if Anders had been holding his hand against a block of ice. "Thank the Maker, you're alive. I thought…I thought…" His trembling got worse and he withdrew his hand. A part of Nathaniel wanted to reach up and catch it, but it was neither appropriate nor possible; feeling had returned to his arms, yes, but so had the pain. Healing magic or not, he was going to be sore for some time.

"I'm alive," Nathaniel confirmed, dark eyes seeking out the mage's. "Now tell me why that surprises you so much."

Anders looked hesitant, uncertain. He fidgeted, tapping his fingertips together rapidly. "Do you…do you remember what happened?" he asked, averting his eyes and avoiding Nathaniel's gaze.

Nathaniel shifted his position and winced – he wasn't quite ready for that yet. "I remember grabbing your arm," he said. "I remember nearly being blinded by light, and then I remember a _lot_ of pain." He was quiet for a moment. "I told you my mission, and you tried to bolt. What happened, Anders?"

Anders rose to his feet and drew back, wrapping his arms around his waist as he kept his back to the rogue. He had to still be in pain, unless Nathaniel had been unconscious for longer than he'd thought, but that had nothing to do with the way Anders' shoulders were hunched forward and how he held himself as if he were trying to disappear from view.

"…You shouldn't have tried to stop me."

"Excuse me?" Nathaniel asked incredulously, his eyebrows going up. "After what I had to rescue you from, you'd think I'd just let you run out of this place, half-naked and without a scrap of food or coin to your name? Are you _daft_?"

A harsh laugh choked its way out of Anders' throat. "That's the question lately, isn't it?" he asked, staring down at his hands. "I don't…I don't know… sometimes I wake up, and I don't even know where I am. If I'm here, or if I'm there, on the other side, trapped between waking and dreaming, surrounded by everything I love and hate all at the same time." His voice trembled as he spoke. "He doesn't want you to take me back. I don't…I don't know why, he hasn't said a word, but he doesn't, he wants me to keep _running_, running until they catch me, running until I can't run anymore and all I can do is collapse and lay where I fall until everything stops."

Nathaniel steeled himself against the pain and pushed himself up, the wreck of what had once been a trunk before the full weight of his body had landed on it shifting around him. Despite Anders no longer touching him, Nathaniel could still feel the magic working his way through him. Any other time and he would have been impressed; Anders hadn't been able to heal without actively casting when he'd been in Amaranthine.

Any other time, but at the moment he was concerned – concerned, and a little disturbed. Anders was rambling, which had never been unusual, but what was alarming was that there was nothing coherent or concise about his words. And while Nathaniel hadn't been serious in his comment, the way that Anders had latched onto the question of his sanity was discomforting.

Nathaniel had not been entirely honest when he had told Anders what his mission was. Its primary objective was to retrieve the wayward Warden and return him to Amaranthine, yes – but there was a secondary aspect of it as well. The report that Anders had been behind the destruction of the Kirkwall Chantry had shocked everyone at Vigil's Keep, even those who had never known the mage. Anders had left behind a legacy in the time he'd been there, the few mages who had been under his instruction at the Keep passing stories of him down to newer recruits – and of course, there were the tales of his time at the Circle Tower, which many of those same mages knew as well. And although his lack of respect for Templar authority and Chantry doctrine had been well known, not a single Amaranthine Warden had been prepared for the news of what had occurred in Kirkwall.

Colin had rebelled against the notion at first, not wanting to believe that Anders could have been the instigator behind such a thing, but he had eventually been forced to admit that seven years _could_ change a person, and none of them knew why Anders had vanished in the first place. Why, if he had been in trouble, he had not come to his Warden brothers and sisters for aid.

That was what Nathaniel had been sent to do. Find Anders, bring him back to Amaranthine – and find out _why_.

He thought back again to that moment before he'd lost consciousness, to the blue-white light that had filled his vision. A light that, he realized as a knot formed in his stomach, had come not from any outside source, but from Anders himself.

"Anders," Nathaniel said quietly. "What's happened to you?"

Anders said nothing for a moment, keeping his back to Nathaniel and his head bowed. Then, slowly, he gave a slight nod. "Let's…let's clean up a little," he said softly. "I'll tell you. I just…a little time. Please."

Nathaniel pressed his lips together, but in the end nodded. There was something about Anders' posture, the slump of his shoulders and the lack of vibrancy that the rogue had once been so familiar with, that made it impossible for him not to agree. "All right."

Anders moved past Nathaniel to the furniture that had been thrown into disarray by Nathaniel's unscheduled flight across the room, righting what furnishings hadn't been outright damaged. After a moment Nathaniel joined him, keeping his hands busy with putting the room back in order, and it occurred to them that they both made quite a pair limping along gingerly as they were, both of them minding their injuries. Nathaniel more so than Anders, or so it seemed – Anders seemed to be moving more with exhaustion than with pain, even though there was no way that his ribs could have fully healed in the time that Nathaniel was unconscious.

When the bed had been cleared and the chair righted and checked over for stability – nobody wanted a chair's bottom to fall out from under them because it suddenly couldn't support their weight, Nathaniel moved to reclaim his seat, only to be stopped by Anders. The mage held out his hand, still not quite touching him, and then shook his head and gestured to the bed. Nathaniel frowned in objection – after all, they were both injured now – but Anders didn't back down, and eventually Nathaniel was forced to acquiesce just to break the silent stalemate between the two of them.

Stubborn mage.

He sat on the edge of the bed; Anders took the chair, one hand still gingerly resting against his side. And they sat there, Nathaniel watching Anders, Anders watching the floor, neither speaking.

It was Nathaniel who finally broke the silence. "Well?" he prompted, trying to keep the impatience that he felt out of his tone, but knew he wasn't entirely successful. _So help me, if I have to dangle a carrot on a stick and coerce him to talk, I will._

Anders clasped his hands together tightly, though not fast enough that Nathaniel didn't catch the trembling in them. "Sorry," he whispered. "I…I had to make sure. Make sure that he wouldn't interfere."

"Make sure _who_ wouldn't interfere?"

Anders swallowed hard, his shoulders shaking slightly as if the sheer force of trying to keep his hands still had transferred the motion up his arms. Then, finally, he lifted his head, and let his gaze meet Nathaniel's.

The broken, despairing look in his eyes made Nathaniel's throat tighten. The faint swirling of white surrounding Anders' pupils, just barely visible among the familiar amber, made his body tense. And the single word that Anders spoke, the helplessness in his near-inaudible voice, brought a deep ache to Nathaniel's heart.

"Justice_." _


End file.
